Janus Face
by JordannaYoung
Summary: When the U.N.C.L.E. team are called to Geneva, a series of dramatic events threaten the very existence of the new organisation. Note: This is my first story and attempt at using the site, so sorry for the lack of chapters. I'm now writing a follow-up. I would love to know what people think.


**The Man from U.N.C.L.E: Janus Face**

 _Geneva, 9 May 1965_

1\. Gaby

Crouched in the space beneath the stairs, breathing heavily, Gaby carefully loaded and checked her gun, then leaned back and closed her eyes, summoning all her courage. She was appalled by the last few weeks. In the year the U.N.C.L.E team had been together, they had become close. From their initial suspicions, trust had built up as each team member had been forced to rely on the others in tight spots. None of them had broken that trust. She had thought, for all three of these lonely people, the team had offered something to replace the families they had lost, to soothe that ache in your soul that came with no one loving you at all. Tears stung her eyes as she reflected how wrong she had been. Now she was alone again, and worse than before, because the love and trust she had built up could never be rebuilt. Her partners were lost, and she was lost, but she would see the mission through. Waverly had made enough of a heartless spy of her for that.

Suppressing the wave of emotion, she took a deep breath and emerged from her hiding place, heading up the stairs cautiously with her gun raised. As she reached the door to the roof, she paused again, then kicked it open and flew out to find what greeted her.

Her adversary stood by the edge, gun also raised and pointing at Gaby's head.

"You can't win," the other woman said. "I have survived things you can't imagine. And you still care, little girl. You care what happens to you, to your friends. You care about consequences. I, on the other hand – there is _nothing_ I would not do to survive."

Gaby tilted her head, as though examining a curious phenomenon.

"You think you have us all figured out, don't you?" she replied as she squeezed the trigger.

 _7 May 1965_

2\. Illya

Illya Kuryakin settled himself across the back seat of the car, hidden from view but uncomfortable due to the disparity between his height and the width of the vehicle. He fiddled with the device in his hands, eventually being rewarded with the sound of voices, and a distinctive laid-back voice with an American accent.

"Tell me, how are you amusing yourself these days, Wanda," it said.

The woman the American sat with gave him a coquettish glance.

"So polite, Napoleon. You've changed. Don't tell me you've become a real gentleman, as well as dressing like one."

Illya pulled off his headphones in annoyance. So Cowboy was just womanising again, not even bothering to assume a fake identity. He resisted the urge to punch something. Even after a year working together, he could not understand the man. He had saved Napoleon from torture that would have ended in an agonising death, had he not arrived. Solo had no way of knowing that Illya would come – he said himself that he thought he had found and removed every tracker. Illya knew enough about torture to know that the incident should have left some scars, mental if not physical. Yet the American had apparently shrugged it off as he did everything, remaining unflappable, smooth and confident. Once or twice, Illya had caught him when he wasn't aware anyone was watching, and his eyes were mask-like, not wearing the usual cultivated casual demeanour, but seeming as though Solo was simply absent, reliving some memory or experience that had transported him from the present momentarily. But those moments were so fleeting that Illya wondered if he had imagined them, that he was looking for any shred of evidence that the Cowboy was more than the superficial playboy he appeared to be.

During their missions over the past year, Solo's womanising and love of luxury had irritated him, but he had suppressed this because of Cowboy's dedication to their work and to the lives of the team. Illya had not forgotten that he would have drowned without Cowboy. Many times since then, he had put his life in Solo's hands and his trust had been repaid. This was why Illya couldn't understand his partner's behaviour on their current mission. Normally a leader, clashing with Kuryakin on the best way to get things done, careful of all their lives, Solo had been increasingly glib, sceptical and unreliable since their arrival in Geneva.

Yes, that was definitely where things had started to change. They flew into Geneva to be briefed by Waverly's contact there, a senior police officer. The story Waverly's man had to tell them was bizarre. The Swiss police were investigating a series of high-profile murders. There was no consistent MO, no apparent connection between the victims in their personal or professional lives. There were only two indications that the deaths were even related. Each death had contributed to escalating tensions in the city, home to so many international organisations. The murder of a leading French trades unionist in the middle of tense negotiations had produced whispers and suspicions, that of a human rights lawyer had evinced mutterings of an assault on rights, and finally the death of a senior aide to the Secretary-General of the U.N. had led to open clamouring for action and flying accusations as to who was behind the murders. His own government had responded poorly to suggestions of their involvement, as had the West Germans to suggestions that they couldn't keep account of ex-Nazis seeking to regroup. Two indications: each victim had been found clutching a small, dead brown bird in one hand. All the police could tell was that the murders were connected, and they had no clue as to whom. The perpetrators knew what they were doing, and left no trace of themselves to follow.

At first, as the briefing finished and they settled down to look over the files, Cowboy was engaged, chatting with them about the best way to proceed, which organisations might have the desire and the skill to carry out the attacks. Then they started to read the individual case reports handed out by Gaby. Solo got the human rights lawyer, Clara Salmon. She was from a wealthy Jewish-American family. They arrived in the States in the 1880s, but her conscience and sense of justice had brought Clara over to Europe at the end of the war with the Red Cross. She'd been here ever since, fighting various causes to prevent the appalling suffering from ever happening again. When they'd finished looking at their own cases, Gaby and Illya began to discuss what they'd found eagerly. It took them a while to notice that Solo was not only silent, but apparently not listening to a word they said. He sat apart from them, gazing at the file, absent-mindedly fingering the signet ring he always wore, the curious image of the God Janus, with its two conflicting faces diffracted so that you constantly glimpsed one, but never together. Solo had told him that the word _janitor_ came from the God's name, and he wore it for his father's job. At the time Illya had been struck by the fact that they shared this tendency, to treasure something that connected them to an absent father. Now, he wasn't sure they had anything in common after all.

"Hey Cowboy," Illya had called inquiringly, and there it was, that terrible look of absence, but as soon as Illya had blinked it was gone again, and Solo smirked at him.

"I'm telling you Peril, we shouldn't touch this. It's the work of some cuckoo with a sense of self-importance and a bird fetish. Local police should be working on this one. Still, while we're in Geneva …"

And he had risen, carefully donned his suit jacket, and walked out without another word.

This behaviour had set the tone for their stay in Geneva thus far. Cowboy never said exactly where he had been, but he reeked of alcohol in the mornings, sporting mysterious bruises, didn't show up where he was supposed to be. Illya had tried to complain to Waverly, but he was curiously unavailable at the moment, presumably on a mission of his own. If Kuryakin had agreed with Solo's assessment of the crimes it might have been ok, but he was certain they were the work of a new and dangerous organisation. What is more, he feared that someone was on to them. He had discovered an unidentifiable tracker in his and Gaby's hotel room, a discovery that Cowboy had merely shrugged at when confronted with the object. He had spotted people following them, melting into the shadows before even he could get a good look. And it wasn't only Illya's neck Cowboy was risking. They had Gaby to think about. Illya felt another surge of rage as the image of Gaby hurt intruded into his mind. He could understand that their relationship pushed Solo out, although they had tried not to do this, and he could understand that Gaby meant more to himself than Solo, but that his partner would gamble with her safety was beyond him.

He sat up abruptly, switched off the machine and climbed into the driver's seat as Solo and his companion shared a joke. Tonight had been Cowboy's last chance to show Illya that he was the person he'd thought him to be. Furious with the realisation that his partner cared for no one, Illya sped off purposely. It was time to confront Solo.

 _30 April 1965_

3\. Napoleon

Napoleon stepped out into the spring sunshine, donning his sunglasses as he set off. He didn't need to search for her. She would already know where he was. The sooner he faced her, and the less Illya and Gaby knew about it, the better. He paused and closed his eyes as he thought of his partners, then winced as a tremor of pain shot through him. He held his right hand up in front of him, examining it closely. It trembled despite his efforts to control it, so he clenched his fist and shoved it into his pocket, then carried on walking decisively. He walked into the first bar he found, ordered a scotch, and waited. He'd only been there for twenty minutes or so when she arrived. In spite of everything that had happened, in spite of everything he knew, he still found her irresistible. He rose, kissed her hand gallantly, ordered her a glass of wine and pulled up a chair for her. As he sat back down, he contemplated the woman before him.

"I got your message. I see you haven't lost your gift for subtlety" he ventured.

She smiled. "Message? That was a gift, my dear. And no, I haven't changed, Napoleon. You, on the other hand, seem to have taken up a new line. I never figured you for a loyal servant of the state. But maybe that's the good influence of your new partners?"

Napoleon flashed a smile as he took a drink. "I assure you, Angelique, my priorities remain where they always were. My new working arrangements are refreshing after the tough love of the CIA handlers. I always could enjoy a holiday."

As she laughed and reached for her wine, he caught her arm.

"What do you want, Angelique? Let's not play games."

"Oh but games are so much fun. And if you don't want to play, perhaps I'll have to take your other toys away until you do. You'll find out soon enough. We're in no hurry."

"I look forward to it. I assure you I've had no toys worth playing with since we parted. In fact, I had a little too much fun a year last year, and I may need a change of pace."

"I can certainly give you that, my love."

She blew him a kiss as she sauntered out of the bar. Solo's hands started twitching again. With difficulty, he extracted a bottle of pills from his jacket, swallowed a couple and washed them down with another scotch.

 _7 May 1965_

4\. Napoleon

Wanda met him to relate what Angelique wanted. He'd been expecting it but even so the weight of responsibility momentarily crushed him. It took all of his practised carefree manner to fight the urge to give into the sensation of despair. He knew that, once this step was taken, there was no going back. He would lose everything he had come to treasure. Yet if he didn't act, he would probably lose it anyway.

"Of course, Wanda," he responded after a minute. "Tell Angelique to consider it done."

"You should know, Solo, that she is desperate to be assured of your devotion to her. This is … a test of loyalty. And if you should fail … well, here is an incentive."

She passed two photographs across the table to him. A man and a woman, taken very recently.

"It's unladylike to make threats, you know Wanda," he said dismissively. "Besides, Angelique has nothing to worry about. She and I go back further than any more recent … acquaintances." He stood up to leave, then took hold her face and gave her a long, intense kiss. "Give that to Angelique for me" he concluded.

Napoleon returned to the hotel to prepare for the task Angelique had set him, taking great care not to run into Gaby or Peril on the way to his room. He was feeling the return of the pain and tremors as he walked up the back stairs, and quickened his pace to reach the medication he'd left in his suitcase. He walked straight into the darkness of his room and headed for where he knew the bottle of pills was bestowed, when a lamp switched on and called him to whirl around, reaching for his gun just as he discerned Illya sat next to it with a stony expression on his face.

"Awfully jumpy, Cowboy. Guilty conscience? And yet you have returned alone. Are you losing magic touch with women?"

Solo turned away and felt a surge of annoyance that Peril had chosen this moment for a confrontation, and yet it had only been a matter of time before this happened. He rearranged his features into a smirk as he faced the Russian again.

"Jealous, Peril? I'm afraid giant Russians who don't drink aren't my type."

Predictably, Illya leapt up angrily, grabbed him and pushed him against the wall.

"You! I trusted you. You save my life in harbour. Many times since then, we work together and I trust you to have my back, to have Gaby's back, like we have yours. And now, you will not work the mission. We are being watched, tracked, followed, and to you is a holiday for chasing _women_." He slammed Solo again against the wall in his rage, then dropped him in disgust and walked away, pacing up and down.

Napoleon waited an eternity before replying.

"That's the problem, though, isn't it? Having my back?" he said quietly.

Illya stared. "What are you talking about?"

Solo looked down. "In Rome, I mean. Gaby betrayed both of us, but she gave you the chance to escape. Because she'd already started loving you. Me, on the other hand, she tossed to her rabid dog of an uncle."

"Solo I—

"Save it, Kuryakin. Do you know the long-term damage that electric shock can do to a person? I had burns all over my arms and legs for weeks afterwards. You and Gaby never even asked how I was. My hands shake and go numb. But you know the worst part, Peril, is my heart. It's not working like it should do Peril. I'm in pain, and I'm scared." Solo glanced across the room at Illya; he looked stricken. Momentarily doubtful, Solo felt another tremor, and reached for his pills before pouring a drink to wash them down with and bolster his courage. He gripped the bottle of whisky.

"It's only a matter of time until Agent Sanders finds out I'm a crock and I'm out of the CIA and back in jail for the next four years, but that's ok because you and your _girlfriend_ can live happily ever after, without putting up with the filthy, womanising thief you never wanted to work with," he spat.

As he finished speaking, he threw the bottle of whisky as hard as he could at the wall above Illya's head. Peril reached up to protect himself from the falling glass, giving Solo chance to rush up and jab him as hard as he could under the ribs with his gun. The Russian doubled over, and Solo smashed his knee into his face and pushed him to the ground.

"You were right about me Illya. I am a dirty thief, and I can't be trusted. I won't go back to jail, but I might have another shot at a stay of execution." Giving the Russian a final savage kick, he left him lying bleeding in the darkness.

5\. Gaby

Gaby headed up towards Solo's room. She hadn't heard from either of her partners for hours and was getting worried. She hoped they were just up here arguing as usual. She felt a jolt of anxiety as she noticed that Napoleon's door was ajar, and she proceeded cautiously, before rushing to Illya's side when she saw the state of him. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, his face sporting numerous cuts and black eyes forming where he had clearly received a blow to the nose.

"Illya! What happened? Where's Napoleon? Was he taken?"

There was a sharp pause before he replied, during which she noticed that he had clearly been sitting there for a while, his arms crossed and one finger tapping ominously.

"He's gone," he offered eventually. "Just us two now."

"Gone? What do you mean? Shouldn't we try to find him?"

"He is filthy double-crossing thief, Gaby! He leave us in the mess to save his own hide!" Illya dragged himself to his feet as he spoke, then winced at the pain in his gut. "He tell me, he afraid that CIA throw him back in prison, so he is running now before they move. No loyalty, after everything."

Gaby frowned. "So, he did this to you?"

"Caught me by surprise. Won't ever happen again," he grunted.

"Well, the first thing we need to do is get those cuts cleaned up."

A short while later, as she bathed his wounds and handed him painkillers, she spoke again:

"I don't understand."

"What to understand? Leopard can't change its spots."

"No, I mean, why is Solo running now? He only had four more years in the CIA, and with U.N.C.L.E. he always did his deals on the side and didn't have to put up with Sanders. Why did he do this now?"

"I—" Illya hesitated. He knew that Solo had never told Gaby about his experience with Uncle Rudi, and he didn't want to cause her the anguish he knew it would produce to know the lasting damage it had done to him. He felt another wave of rage and sadness when he reflected on how this act of kindness on Solo's part had impressed him, and on his own failure to notice that his partner was sickening so badly.

He realised he had not yet answered Gaby.

"He has been meeting women, women he seems to know somehow. I think maybe they give him an opportunity too good to miss. Also, before he lose temper he tell me he is sick. I think maybe he is not thinking too well."

"A criminal opportunity?" Gaby asked.

"Yes, I suspect."

"If he's sick and not thinking straight, we have to try and find him then, prevent him making a mistake." As she spoke, Gaby stood up decisively and started going over the room systematically. "If he's planning something, maybe he left a clue – you said that he left in a hurry. He might not have taken everything he wanted to."

Eventually, after turning the room upside down, they found some documents stashed in a hidden pocket of his suitcase, along with a postcard showing an old picture of a cowboy in the old Wild West. Gaby smiled as she saw it, feeling a stab of affection and concern for her missing partner, although Illya turned his face away. While Illya started to study the documents, she turned the card over to see no bland holiday greeting, but instead, scrawled in Napoleon's handwriting "It's _really_ cold here." Before she could ponder this, Illya called her over to look at the documents they had unearthed.

"Gaby, is blueprint of house of French ambassador, along with inventory of artworks in Embassy, and description of the movements of the guards."

She was shocked. "You think he's going back to stealing art?"

"I don't want to, but what else can I think? But even if he has abandoned us, we will try to stop him making this mistake, agreed?"

Gaby nodded, still affected by the revelations of the evening, and they settled down to examine the documents in more detail.

6\. Illya

Two hours later, they pulled up a few streets from the back of the French Embassy. There was no sign of Solo, but they wouldn't have expected any yet. They crept up to the high back wall of the complex, looking for any sign of their partner. They hadn't been searching long before they spotted a rope still hanging down from the wall above a bush secreting a set of tools they recognised as Solo's.

"Holy shit!" Illya exclaimed. "Cowboy, you idiot. What were you thinking?"

He couldn't believe the American's carelessness, yet saw no alternative but to follow and try to extract him, so he started climbing the rope, instructing Gaby to keep watch at the bottom. When he was halfway up, he didn't need her to warn him when they both heard the sound of sirens approaching. They froze, but Illya recovered first.

"Gaby run! Take the car. I'll see you at the hotel." She hesitated, and he urged again, "Go! Go! No use if we're caught." She turned and ran, while he hastened his climb as the sirens screamed their arrival. He was just mounting the top of the wall when gunfire crackled and a searing pain in his shoulder caused him to release his grip on the top of the wall. He panicked as he felt himself falling back to the ground. He tried to roll as he landed but misjudged it, feeling his ankle go from under him painfully. Before he could even attempt to drag himself to a standing position and try to run, there were six Swiss officers with guns surrounding him, rolling him onto his face and cuffing him, causing him to cry out from the agony in his shoulder.

"Cowboy you bastard," he thought as he let his body go limp and submitted to the hell his misjudgement was surely about to cause him.

7\. Napoleon

Napoleon was draped on the sofa in Angelique's hotel room, giving every appearance of relaxation, although in fact he was bitterly regretting the fact that he'd left his pills in his hotel room with Kuryakin. He downed another shot of vodka. Even if it couldn't really soothe his symptoms, it would help to numb the crippling stress they caused him. Fortunately, Angelique was distracted from both his trembling hands and his drinking by the phone. He turned as she burst out laughing, before saying goodbye and hanging up.

"Well Napoleon, your trail worked. Your giant friend got caught breaking into the French Embassy, by all accounts. Is he really the best the KGB can rustle up? Your superiors will be hushing this up for months! And, he's injured, so no chance of him blundering in on you once we start up the game. Isn't that a relief, darling? They didn't get your little German tart though. Shouldn't we send someone to take of that?"

Solo downed another shot. "I already told you, he's not my friend. And you don't need to worry about Teller. She's barely a spy; more of a liability than an asset to us. If Kuryakin didn't want to get her undressed, she'd have been let go a year ago. She'll be too frightened to do anything on her own. Probably end up mopping Kuryakin's brow in hospital."

"Well if you're sure – I see that you haven't gone soft after all. Or maybe it's just that you never could refuse me anything." She gave him a long, lingering kiss. "Wanda gave me your gift." She winked. "That was another, and so now you owe me again, and if you do this, you'll be free of the CIA just like you long to be." Here are your instructions – she handed him a slim folder – read them, destroy, and I'll see you in two nights. Don't be late, or we'll see if you really don't care at all for the German tart and the overgrown Russian."

Solo smiled again effortlessly. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

 _8 May 1965_

8\. Gaby

The morning after the botched operation, Gaby took a deep breath and walked decisively into the hospital, bunch of flowers in hand, thick glasses and a hat making her into the image of an unremarkable housewife visiting a sick relative. She marched smartly up to reception and struck up a conversation in her best Swiss-accented German, asking for a ward she had found out mainly served elderly patients with hip and knee problems.

"Thank you so much for your help," she said. "I'm glad my day has nothing more exciting than seeing my mother after a fall. She's alright thank goodness, they told me when they rang. I had to cancel tea and my shopping trip, but her health comes first of course. Did you hear about the dreadful incident with a Russian attempting to get into the French Embassy? I hear that people have been hurt? But I suppose you're used to drama in a major hospital."

Gaby was aiming for an air of blunt, nosy, and not skilled at extracting information, because the receptionist gave her a bored and pitying look and drawled that she couldn't comment on the hospital's response to incidents.

"Oh, of course not, I didn't intend to pry. I'm just a little shocked – the red peril indeed, no? Anyway, I—" She broke off and closed her eyes, holding a hand to her forehead dramatically and panting.

"Is something wrong?" asked the receptionist, considerably less bored now.

"It's just I've been feeling a little faint – I'm expecting you see … Oh" she sighed and swayed a little, gripping the desk.

Fearing a fainting woman, the receptionist hurried round the desk and helped her to a chair, before scuttling off to find a nurse. In the few minutes she was gone, Gaby had efficiently riffled through the files on the desk and identified a memo about a dangerous criminal being treated that told her exactly where Illya was, and she was already heading up in the lifts before the receptionist could puzzle over her absence. Once she got to the right area of the hospital, she saw at once that there was no chance of seeing Illya, not without getting herself arrested by the detail of guards outside his room. She was able to pick up enough to know that he was alive and not in immediate danger, so she got out as quick as she could and went back to the hotel.

To her surprise when she arrived Waverly was waiting for her in her room.

"I hope you don't mind me taking the liberty of coming in and pouring a drink, Gaby," he said without a trace of embarrassment over breaking into her room. "Unfortunate incident with Kuryakin, this. I've got a medical report – he'll be back on his feet in no time. Smoothing things over with the French and the Swiss may take a little while. Everyone's frightfully upset. So you'll have to lay low for a while. I'm sure you'll do fine."

Gaby gaped at him. Even with his unflappable manner, she expected him to be angry now.

"And Solo? Do you realise what he's done to Illya? Are you planning to do anything about that Waverly?"

"Ah yes, again, dashed bad timing, but I don't want you to worry too much about that just now. The main thing is to avoid going to see Kuryakin or working on the latest mission – we don't need you arrested too and upsetting the Germans and the British to boot." He got up to leave.

Gaby snarled: "You just expect me to sit here? Three people are dead! Solo's gone crazy, he may be ill. Illya's been shot and might get thrown in jail, and I'm supposed to keep my pretty little head down?"

Waverly sighed. "Better than it being shot off, Gaby. I really am doing everything I can for you. Remember you're still new to this game. I'll be in touch soon."

After he left, Gaby threw herself down on the sofa in frustration at his patronising attitude. Her first instinct was to go and raid Napoleon's scotch and get completely drunk, but she rejected the plan. She didn't care what Waverly said, she wasn't going to be helpless. First of all, she thought carefully over everything that had happened since the start of the mission. She tried to think when Solo had started acting strangely, but it was difficult. The man's charm and confidence had always dazzled her a little. Until Illya's revelations she had completely forgotten that he used to be a thief. And how could he be sick? He always seemed almost as tough and athletic as Illya. But then, there was a difference between them, beyond all the arguments over methods and clashing personalities. Illya could be cold and reserved, but there was a basic honesty about him. He was reserved when he was embarrassed, but with Solo, behind the warmth and humour that made him seem open was an essential refusal to open himself up. She wondered who he really was behind it all, back when he was a soldier, a thief, a janitor's son … She paused, then suddenly ran to Illya's bed and pulled out the suitcase in which he kept all his equipment. She knew that Illya didn't trust easily, and also that he was both thorough in methodical in collecting information. After wrestling with the case for twenty minutes or so, she finally discovered, secreted in the lining, a copy of the KGB file on Napoleon Solo. She sank to the floor and began to read.

 _9 May 1965_

9\. Illya

Illya awoke groggily. The previous day after the events at the Embassy had passed in a haze of pain and wooziness. He'd been taken to theatre to remove the bullet in his shoulder, and was now in recovery. He lifted his hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, then remembered that his good arm was handcuffed to the side of the bed. The other arm, with the injured shoulder, was strapped up across his chest. His right ankle was bandaged and elevated too. He couldn't move, or escape. He couldn't even reach the buzzer to call a nurse. He lay back again and closed his eyes, reflecting on the past few weeks to take his mind off his pain and discomfort. He was still appalled by Solo's actions. Stupid, cowardly, no good …

He was suddenly struck by something. Whatever else Solo might be, he had never been a coward. Even in his army days, he had served with distinction, and had never shied away from risk during any of their missions. Now Kuryakin thought about it, for all he abused Cowboy for being a terrible spy, the man was no fool either. His handler had told him that an international task force had only caught him by luck. But that begged the question, why has he left such an obvious trail to follow. He'd kept incriminating documents where Illya and Gaby were bound to look. He'd left clear evidence of where he was going by abandoning his tools. Kuryakin frowned.

"Cowboy, what were you thinking?"

As he uttered his partner's nickname, he remembered the postcard. Again, now his head was cooler, he realised how strange the card had been. Who had it been intended for? And as it was in Napoleon's handwriting, why was he talking about the cold in May for God's sake?

"Hey! Guard. Hey! In here."

The police officer standing guard outside the door sauntered in.

"I need cigarettes and lighter from my jacket," he demanded. "Come on! You should know Geneva Convention here friend."

The guard looked vacant for a moment, then walked over and threw the jacket on the bed.

"And how am I supposed to smoke with no hands – unlock the cuffs please."

This time the guard looked really doubtful.

"Friend, I have surgery on shoulder yesterday, and cannot put weight on foot. How am I supposed to run away?"

Reluctantly, the guard obliged, and then returned to his spot outside the door.

He took the postcard out of an inner pocket and examined it and the cryptic message again. _It's really cold here_. Taking out the lighter, he held the postcard awkwardly in the hand of his bad arm, and with the other used the lighter to heat the back of the card. The image of the cowboy faded, and Illya could make out a series of letters and numbers underneath. They had no obvious meaning on their own, but Illya and Napoleon had spent the last year developing a cipher that would allow them to communicate if they needed to relay messages that might be intercepted, and which they could apply without needing anything more than their own memory. It took him a few minutes of concentration, but Illya could read the message. It was addressed to 'Peril' from 'Cowboy', and the rest of the message was a set of coordinates and a 5-digit number that Illya couldn't identify.

Illya hesitated. He'd followed something left by Cowboy only two days earlier, and paid for it. On the other hand, he still felt the compulsion to give his partner another chance. He thought back to Napoleon's face as he described the after-effects of his time with Uncle Rudi. Cowboy may have played him over the rest of it, but he remembered that familiar look of absence in Solo's eyes, and for the first time he thought he understood that the American was still locked in to that horrific experience, and he didn't believe he'd been faking.

"Guard?" Kuryakin called once again. It was high time to discharge himself.

Several hours later, Illya was dressed in the guard's uniform, walking as normally as he could manage towards the building he had matched to Cowboy's coordinates. As he entered, he understood what the other number was.

He walked stiffly up to the desk, suppressing the protests from his ankle and now unstrapped shoulder, and spoke in perfectly accented German.

"I wish to access my safe deposit box. The number is 573891."

The receptionist checked a list and then smiled. "Certainly, Herr Gefahr. This way."

Well, he was in the right place, Illya reflected as he followed her. Solo had registered the box using the German word for Peril. The receptionist opened the box, and Illya removed the contents: a small briefcase. He didn't open it, waiting until he was somewhere more secure.

He eventually chose to take a room at a discreet establishment that he knew provided specialist services for high-profile gentlemen with potentially embarrassing sexual proclivities. They took cash, asked no questions, and rented rooms by the afternoon. Once locked in his room, he took a moment to settle himself back on the bed and down a handful of the painkillers he'd managed to get hold of. He then opened the briefcase. It contained a thick dossier of information, clearly gathered by Solo, of everything he had discovered concerning the spate of murders and a criminal organisation who might be responsible. On top of the file was a single sheet of paper with a sketch of a brown bird and an acronym:

Technological

Hierarchy for the

Removal of

Undesirables and the

Subjugation of

Humanity

Slotted into the dossier in some haste, too, was a slim file consisting of a detailed breakdown of the alarm and security systems of the Geneva Headquarters of the UN, the sort of information a thief would need to break in somewhere.

"My God Cowboy, what have you got yourself into?" he exclaimed in dismay.

As he lifted the file out, something small fell out of it. He picked it up and recognised it as Solo's signet ring. He turned it between his fingers, watching the two faces which, Solo had told him, faced the future and the past. He thought he finally understood what Solo had been trying to tell him. He checked his father's watch. It was already getting late. He wasn't sure how much time was left, but he was going to do everything he could.

10\. Gaby

Gaby was pacing up and down in the hotel room, fighting the tears that kept threatening to overwhelm her. Solo's file had made uncomfortable reading. She realised that barely knew a man she considered one of her closest friends. It wasn't so much the background of crime that appalled her, it was horrors that lurked beneath it. The charming spy had lost his father at any early age and been estranged from his remarried mother for years, spending his adolescence a social outsider on scholarships at a succession of snooty schools. He didn't appear to have any other close family. If he'd found any relationship to replace them in the CIA or the Army, the file didn't relate it. Gaby wondered who looked out for Napoleon, who stayed up worrying that he was ok. She had lost much of her family too, and yet she had Illya – or at least, she had had. Her eyes stung again as she wondered where he was. The news that a dangerous Russian criminal was at large after his escape from the hospital was everywhere. Waverly hadn't been back in touch and Gaby didn't know if Illya would ever be able to work with them again, or if, hopelessly compromised, he'd simply have to disappear back behind the Iron Curtain. She chided herself for again forgetting Napoleon as she worried about herself and Illya. She decided to have one more read through the file, to see if she could glean any clue to what he might be up to.

In the end, she was struck by the most banal detail. Somehow, the KGB had at one stage got their hands on Solo's Army personal file from 1948, a point at which he was still in uniform, but was getting deeper into the stolen art business. Along with all the usual information about his age and place of birth, under next of kin Solo had written the name 'Clara Salmon', with an address and telephone number in Paris. She was astonished that Solo had not confessed this important connection once they learned of the murders, and she couldn't think why it could be. Surely he would want to share information so they could learn who had killed this woman he had known, and maybe loved? Unless … unless he already knew who'd done it, or thought he did. She thought back to his silence after the briefing, and what he had said about the killings being the work of some local cuckoo.

As she remembered the phrase, she felt something, an echo in her mind. Leaping up from the sofa, she got out the case notes on the killings they'd been handed by the Geneva Police, and started riffling through the witness statements relating to Clara's murder. There among them was the testimony of one Angelique Coucou, a French tourist staying in the adjacent room in Clara's hotel, who had reported hearing strange conversations in Russian in the corridor the night that Clara was murdered. Gaby gazed at the attached photo of the woman. She was undoubtedly beautiful, dark and strong-featured, but with an indefinable look about her that said that she was trouble. As Gaby was struck by the woman's appearance, she remembered something else. Picking Solo's file up again, she turned to a later section containing some photos taken when the international task force was closing in on Napoleon. In one, she found what she was looking for. Napoleon, in a bar, his arm around a beautiful brunette with such striking strong features.

Gazing at the evidence before her, she leapt about a foot in the air as the phone rang. It was Waverly.

"Ah Gaby, glad to see that you've been heeding my advice and not doing anything foolish. Which is more than can be said of our Russian friend," he began.

"Waverly listen! I've found some connections. I don't know what Solo is doing but I think he knows a lot more than he's letting on."

"I'm afraid that will have to wait, Gaby," he answered, infuriating Gaby. "There are reports coming in of a spot of bother at the U.N. Headquarters. From some of the intelligence that's filtering in, Kuryakin may be blundering around there in spite of his injuries. Even if not, we don't need any more diplomatic incidents that might jeopardise U.N.C.L.E. Get down there, see what you can find out, and try and prevent any funny business. I can have a team ready to back you up if necessary."

"Waverly I—"

"You have your orders, Miss Teller."

After he hung up, Gaby threw the phone at the wall in frustration, but then she realised that if Illya really was there, unlikely though it seemed, she would be with the one person she was sure wouldn't doubt her judgment, and would be as committed as she was to finding out what Solo was up to. She ran to change and collect her gun ready to do as Waverly had instructed.

11\. Napoleon

Solo suppressed another nauseating wave of pain and trembling, focusing intently on what he was doing. If everything he'd planned had rolled into motion, he just had to hold on for a little longer. After that, well, it didn't matter too much. He had no idea how bad the consequences of success would be, but he was prepared to accept the worst of them. He'd been given far, far more than he deserved in his wretched life. He realised that now. He finished connecting the wiring and tested the circuit. There. He sat back for a second and admired his handiwork, then heard a tell-tale click of a gun being armed behind him. He turned very slowly to see Wanda pointing a gun at his head. She lowered it and threw her head back laughing.

"Oh the look on your face Napoleon. I think all these years in the CIA have robbed you of your sense of humour. Anyway, have you finished? If you're done, I have a little gift for you darling. Your little East German barely-a-spy is in the building, headed straight for Angelique. Not as frightened as you thought. She's only alive because Angelique wants to play with her for a bit before she kills her. If you hurry off now, you won't miss all the fun."

Solo cocked his head thoughtfully. "How amusing, Wanda. I think I'll follow your recommendation. Allow me to send Angelique another gift first, if I may." He held her face in his hands.

"Why not give this one to her yourself?" she asked.

"That would spoil the surprise," he retorted.

Closing her eyes for the kiss that never came, Wanda never felt Solo snap her neck until it was too late.

Solo paused at the door to the roof, listening intently. He had two weapons, and he could only hope that he would have the right one in his hand for the purpose when he went up. He could hear Angelique talking about the lengths she would go to to survive, to someone who could only be Gaby. As he heard Gaby start to reply he burst through the door. Gaby was on the point of pulling the trigger of her gun aimed at Angelique's head when she whipped her head around to see who was approaching. She had barely begun to utter his name in astonishment when he fired straight at her chest, the silent shot causing her to crumple to the floor instantly.

"Everything's in place Angelique. We should be going. It wouldn't do to still be here when it goes off."

He moved towards her, until stopped by the glint in her eyes as she turned around.

"Why in such a hurry, Napoleon? It's so bourgeois you know." She looked over at Gaby. "You didn't hesitate to shoot your little German girl – impressive – and yet I can't seem to see any blood. Why don't I shoot her again, just to make sure?"

Solo could not avoid shouting "No!" as she raised her gun. Angelique laughed and turned it to point at him instead.

"Did you think I couldn't hear the difference between a silencer and a tranquilizer dart? So you do have a heart after all, even after everything. It's not working too well though at the moment is it? And now you've blown your act."

Solo looked down. "It doesn't matter any more. I've set everything in motion. The wiring won't set the bomb off – I created a dummy, and set the alarms not to go off but trigger the function to alert the police directly. They should be here any minute." As he spoke, they heard a distant scream of sirens. He moved quickly as she turned around and grabbed the wrist holding the gun, forcing her to drop it.

"I don't suppose there will be much opportunity for visiting you in jail, and I think those prison uniforms will do nothing for your figure anyway, so I guess this is goodbye."

Still holding her wrist firmly, he reached into his pocket for the handcuffs he had thought to bring. Angelique laughed again with a note of hysteria.

"You're going to turn me over to the good guys, Napoleon? You miserable thief. You still have no idea what you're dealing with."

She kicked him hard in the crotch with her stiletto, then again in the head as he collapsed in pain. He ought to have been able to roll away and stand up, but a wave of dizziness and pain accompanied by the rapid, irregular fluttering of his heart rooted him to the ground for a minute, by which time Angelique had retrieved her gun. She fired three shots into his abdomen. Solo didn't even feel himself fall until he slammed into the ground. Through a haze of pain, numbness and shallow breathing he felt Angelique brush her lips against his.

"I could just shoot you in the head, but this way you bleed to death in agony. Wish I could stay to watch but …" They could hear the distant sounds of doors slamming and men shouting instructions. Solo just heard her retreating footsteps, heading for the stairs.

As the roof door slammed open once more, he assumed Angelique had gone. He gave a sigh of relief as he heard a distinctive Russian voice growling with barely suppressed rage, and a cry from Angelique that told him she had been disarmed and was being held firm by Illya.

"You have already lost," Illya told her. "UN soldiers have been called in. We have enough evidence to destroy your organisation, and bomb is fake. No subjugation today, all thanks to Cowboy."

"Maybe, my Russian friend," she replied, "but he'll have to gathered an awful lot to finish off _my_ organisation. You don't know how deep this goes. And dear Napoleon may have stopped us this time, but it's cost him everything he has."

Solo smiled to himself and closed his eyes as an agonising pain coursed through his chest. _This is it_ , he thought. His heart was fluttering too rapidly, it was a struggle to breathe, and he couldn't move for the agony in his guts. He heard a man shout and the sound of running feet, and then felt hands touching him and voices talking to him, giving words of encouragement, putting pressure on the bleeding, stroking his face.

He heard Illya's worried voice. "Hey, Cowboy. Cowboy. Can you hear me?" He didn't have the energy to reply. "I get shot because of you, Cowboy. Almost cause diplomatic incident. Why did you not trust me?"

That propelled him to attempt to speak. He was surely going to die momentarily, but he wanted Illya to understand, and forced his eyelids open. "The Janus face, Peril," he whispered. "You couldn't lie with your whole life. It took a thief to do that." He smiled as Gaby joined them, as he heard them radioing for help, as they did what they could for him, and as their voices and faces gradually faded away.

Napoleon dreamed.

It was 1945 and he was seventeen, seducing a beautiful girl who didn't care who his father had been, who wanted to save the world.

It's 1950 and the beautiful girl is packing, they're both crying, she calls him a thief and he knows it's true.

1952\. He'll never be more than a thief now. It's impossible to stop. No one loves him now, and he's pretty sure he won't love anyone else. It's only the things – the women, the clothes, the lifestyle – that keep him tethered to life, that stop him from curling up in despair. He meets another woman. She's not Clara, but she can give him the things he needs. But she knows she doesn't own him and that drives her crazy. One night he tells her about Clara, when he's drunk too much and can't hide his longing. "Forget your little bird," she cossets. "Play with your cuckoo instead." Three weeks later and the authorities finally corner him at a hotel in Nice. Punched, kicked, and handcuffed on the floor, he's taunted by the investigator. "Be careful who you sleep with, Solo. Your girlfriend gave you up without us even asking."

It's 1964 and he's in hospital in New York, taking advantage of a break between missions. The doctor comes in and he isn't smiling, and he needs to have a frank conversation with Napoleon.

It's 1965 and he sees Clara's dead body frozen in the black and white image, the thrush clutched in her hand, and he _knows_. He thinks of Illya and Gaby, and he knows that she'll find out. He calls up Waverly, tells him what he knows, and asks him to trust him. And then he lies to his partners, lies so they'll never forgive him, but if it keeps them alive it will be worth it.

 _12 August 1965, Oxford, England_

12\. Illya

Illya Kuryakin walked up to the handsome stone building, carrying his usual bag, although for once it wasn't full of radio equipment and trackers. After asking at the desk, he finds the right room, and enters to see Napoleon Solo staring back at him.

Even though he'd been told that Solo was still extremely ill, he was appalled by his appearance. After two days in critical condition in a hospital in Geneva, Waverly had had him spirited away to England to undergo a pioneering surgical procedure on his heart as a lasting solution to the problems caused by his time with Uncle Rudi. He and Gaby had been told bluntly by their chief that he wasn't permitted visitors, that he needed rest and to avoid the agitation that would be caused by going over the events of Geneva. After almost three months, however, Waverly had approached Illya and told him that Solo was fading despite the success of the operation. Seeing him again after this time, Illya knew exactly what he was talking about. Pain and anxiety had ravaged Solo's good looks and muscular physique. The bullets had damaged his stomach and one had lodged in his spine, restricting him to protracted bed rest and liquid food for weeks on end. He was still covered with tubes. Illya had been told that the doctors wanted to operate to try and find the bullet and relieve pressure on the spine, allowing Solo to walk again in time, but Solo had grown too weak to allow them to attempt it. He looked pained, emaciated, and utterly defeated. Even in this condition, however, something of the old bravado remained.

"Peril. So how'd you find me?"

"Easy. Follow the whisky, fancy clothes, and broken-hearted women. You're still a terrible spy Cowboy."

Solo smiled weakly. "Still took you long enough Peril."

"Well, there was the trail, and … Waverly send me. He told me the doctors say you have given up on life. Not eating. Not rebuilding strength. Very frail. That is no good for team Cowboy."

"Peril, please. Illya. There won't be any team I can be a part of anymore. You were right. I broke your trust, and Gaby's. I may never walk again. It's ok. I never thought I'd walk away from Angelique a second time." He trailed off as the effort of speaking exhausted him, and closed his eyes. He jerked them open again as he felt light thumps near his feet as various objects hit the bed. There was a bottle of scotch, what looked like a full picnic hamper, and last of all, an U.N.C.L.E. case file. Illya, having completely ignored his little speech, was now removing glasses from inside pockets of his jacket and pouring them both a generous measure.

"You don't drink Peril."

"I can learn new things. And maybe you can too. Now come." He started to help Solo to sit up a little in bed. Napoleon was so weak that he practically dragged him up, before rearranging the pillows so he was propped up.

"And do what?" Solo sighed.

"Drink, for now. Then tonight you read case file and you tell me what you think in the morning. Waverly's instructions. In KGB I do physical training. My new training assignment is you. Every day we eat, we train a little, and we study case files. You help plan missions, teach me lock-picking skills, until ready to re-join team. You gain strength, and have operation, and soon be back on your feet."

Napoleon sighed deeply again. "Peril, I appreciate this, but there's no guarantee the operation will work, or that I'll regain my fitness. I'll be a liability. That's no good for the team either."

Illya gave him a long and searching look. "We did not only lose a team mate in Geneva. We lose a friend too. Waverly has told us everything. I know what you did to keep us safe. I think a lot about what you told me, too, about the Janus face and you lying with your whole life. I think you were saying that whatever else you appeared to be, you were always a worthless criminal at heart. But the ring has two faces, Cowboy. You stole but you also saved your friends. You betrayed trust but you did so for good reasons. And whatever you think of yourself, Cowboy, Gaby and I know what we think too, and we want you to come back to the team. Maybe operation work, maybe not, but you can still help us. Even a terrible spy like you.

"Oh. I almost forgot. I have something else for you too."

He reached into his pocket and tossed something small to Napoleon, who was mildly heartened by the fact that he actually managed to catch it. The sarcastic comment he was preparing died on his lips as he saw that the object was Illya's father's watch. He couldn't speak, but kept looking from Illya to the watch in disbelief at this proof of trust. He couldn't help the tears stinging his eyes and he looked away, but after a moment felt a hand on his shoulder, and saw that Illya was offering him his drink.

"I keep your ring for now. We swap back on first day back at work Cowboy," he said. "Until then, it can remind you that time living is precious, and that you still have a family."

"I guess I could cast my eye over that file," Solo eventually said with another weak smile.


End file.
